Free Mean Business on North Ganson Street by S. Craig Zahler

Williams. Copy.”
    The device emitted a series of hisses and crackles.
    â€œWhere are you?” asked a sexless voice. “Over.”
    â€œWe’re busy,” replied Dominic.
    Bettinger thumbed the talk bar. “We’re on Summer and Twentieth. Over.”
    â€œProceed to five forty-three Point Street, apartment sixteen ten. There’s a civil disturbance. Do you copy?”
    â€œWe copy. What’s the nature of the disturbance? Over.”
    â€œDomestic violence. Over.”
    â€œWho lives at this address? Over.”
    â€œIt’s unclear who lives there. Over.”
    â€œWe’re on our way. Over and out.”
    Bettinger clipped the receiver to the console.
    Dominic seized the two-way unit, tore it from the dashboard, and tossed it into the rear of the car.
    â€œFive forty-three Point Street,” said the detective.
    â€œI fuckin’ heard.”
    â€œApartment sixteen ten.”
    Unable to look at his passenger, the bandaged, bull-nosed corporal tightened his fists upon the wheel. “You tryin’ to get me to take a swing at you? Turn my demotion into a suspension?”
    â€œWho knows why I do anything?”
    â€œWell I ain’t gonna throw no fists at you.”
    Bettinger was not sure if the man was implying some subtler form of retaliation, but he let the comment sail.

 
    XIII
    Crabhead
    The vehicle sped west, and gradually, the surrounding parks, retail stores, and brownstones were replaced by rows of tall tenement buildings. Peopling the bleak sidewalks of this area were a few shambling oldsters and some pale skinheads who wore big jackets over their Hitler tattoos. On the corner of Tenth and Charles, a white teenager whose pierced face looked like a shrapnel museum eyeballed the black policemen, walked to the edge of the road, and scratched his underarms, chattering like a monkey. His contemporaries on the far side of the street applauded his wit.
    Dominic drove past the idiot, turned onto a narrow road, and parked alongside the curb. Together, the pair exited the car and walked west.
    Five youths on skateboards zoomed around the front courtyard of a gray project building that wore the number 543. The top two stories of the twenty-story structure were illuminated by sunlight, but most of it was in shadow.
    â€œCops,” announced a light-skinned black kid who wore a gold sweat suit and had elaborately braided hair.
    Two of the youths rocketed away.
    Bettinger and Dominic entered the courtyard, and the remaining skateboarders kept their distance. Far-off shouts continued to announce the presence of law enforcers.
    The detective gauged the building as he walked across the concrete. Its front door was a combination of bulletproof glass and iron bars, and the intercom panel looked like it had been struck by a meteor.
    Pausing, Bettinger eyed the light-skinned black kid. “You seem knowledgeable.”
    The youth shook his elaborate braids as he skated. “I ain’t.”
    â€œCome here.”
    â€œI didn’t do nothin’.”
    â€œEver heard of a place called school?” asked Dominic.
    â€œNever.”
    â€œWell you s’posed to be in it right now—learnin’ how to be better than this.”
    â€œI learn plenty right here.” The kid zoomed around the policemen. “The courtyard’s educational.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” asked Bettinger, monitoring the satellite.
    â€œLet me go ask my momma.”
    The light-skinned skateboarder veered away from his inquisitors.
    â€œIf you make me come get you,” Dominic warned, “you ain’t gonna be talkin’ clever.”
    The youth skidded to a halt. “Why you need my name? I didn’t do nothin’.”
    Bettinger thought that the kid’s ornate braids had a crustaceous appearance. “We’ll call you Crabhead until you give us something better.”
    â€œThe fuck you will, nigga.”
    Dominic